


Monsters Under the Bed, in Your Head

by eyeslikeonyx



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Graphic Description of Corpses, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikeonyx/pseuds/eyeslikeonyx
Summary: On the morning of November 9, 1973, Good Hope Sheriff John Tavares is the third man to pull up to the banks of Lake Perry where a body has been found. Principal Patrick Marleau of Good Hope High School was the first, and Deputy Sheriff Morgan Reilly was the second.





	Monsters Under the Bed, in Your Head

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [sallycake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallycake/pseuds/sallycake) in the [PuckingRare2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2019) collection. 



> a massive thank you to barbie and cherry for helping me bounce ideas off their heads for weeks and tweaking this thing to make it the best version of itself possible. i couldn't have done it without either of you.
> 
> this story is a little intense, emotions wise. since it is set in the 1970s, please be aware that this isn't going to sugarcoat the fear of being lgbt in this time period to any capacity.
> 
> kudos and comments are always welcome!

On the morning of November 9, 1973, Good Hope Sheriff John Tavares is the third man to pull up to the banks of Lake Perry where a body has been found. Principal Patrick Marleau of Good Hope High School was the first, and Deputy Sheriff Morgan Reilly was the second.

“According to Mr. Marleau,” Reilly explains to Tavares as they walk from the Sheriff’s police cruiser to the taped off crime scene, “he found the body floating along the banks of the lake at just half past seven this morning. He pulled the body out of the water and tried to see if he could resuscitate him. When he realized the guy was dead, he called the station.”

“Any other witnesses?” the Sheriff asks.

“Nope. Just Mr. Marleau.”

Tavares nods curtly and squats down to get a closer look at the decomposing body. The corpse is missing an arm and part of the left thigh has been bitten off. His eyes are wide and lifeless, and his jaw is slack from rigor mortis.

“He looks like he’s been in there a while,” Mr. Marleau remarks. His face looks a little queasy as he speaks. John can sympathize.

“Bodies tend to decompose faster in the water,” Tavares explains. “And it also looks like some predators got a hold of him.” He is about to turn away to ask Reilly to get him some sample bags, something catches his eye. Upon closer examination, he spots a thin chain made of gold sitting around the body’s neck. It holds a matching gold cross that rests atop the body’s white t-shirt that has too many holes in it.

Tavares mentally swears to himself.

“Must’ve been floating around for days,” Reilly comments as he’s collecting his samples to take back to the police station. John tears his gaze from the necklace and takes a couple of sample bags from Reilly. He avoids looking at the necklace as he bags up a few minor samples here and there.

“We’ll find out as soon as we get the body back to Dr. Andersen,” Tavares says. “He’ll give us a more accurate time of death.”

Tavares searches around the body for any other incriminating evidence he’ll need to bag up, but nothing catches his eye. Nothing much seems to stand out to Reilly, either. Not until he begins to examine the body’s face a little more closely. He scowls.

“Is it just me, or does this guy look a lot like Paul Marner?”

Tavares looks at the dead, rotting face again.

“Could be,” he replies coolly. “We won’t know for sure until we get the body to Andersen.”

Hours go by before Dr. Andersen comes to Tavares with the results from the exam.

“That’s Paul Marner, all right,” the medical examiner says. “The dental records I had my assistant go into town to retrieve came back as a ninety percent match. Tooth decay from years of alcohol abuse and the drugs he was taking caused us to have a minor hiccup there, but Paul Marner’s body is definitely sitting in my morgue right now.”

“Did you find a cause of death?” Tavares asks, skimming over Andersen’s notes.

“Well, it was pretty easy to tell that drowning didn’t kill him. His lungs were empty when I examined them. Based on my findings, I’ve concluded that the exact cause of death was blunt force trauma to the frontal lobe of his brain, causing a shattering of the skull and immediate death on impact. No one can survive an injury like that.”

“Think someone whacked him?” Reilly asks.

“It’s hard to say since Marner has already gone through most of rigor mortis. And the fact that his body has been in the water for God only knows how long, I can’t get a proper time of death, either. It’ll take a while before I can come up with more information.”

“Knew the old bastard would die before too long. I know it’s awful to be disrespectful to the dead, but that old drunk was one of the meanest men I ever knew. He got what was coming to him, accident or foul play.”

“It’s not disrespect if it’s the truth,” Deputy Kadri murmurs from behind his coffee cup. “He treated everyone around him like dirt—his family the worst. Ran that oldest son of his out of here after Ms. Bonnie died. Still can’t believe his youngest has stuck around here this long. Speaking of, who’s going to go tell the kid that his old man is dead?”

“I’ll go tell him,” Tavares announces almost immediately. “I helped him a lot with trying to keep his father in line after his mother died and his brother skipped town. I think it would be best if heard the news from someone he knows.”

Kadri scoffs.

“Doubt he’ll miss the bastard. Everyone knows that sack of shit was beating the hell out of the poor kid every day, and yet no one ever did a thing. Should’ve taken those two boys out of that home when they were children. Their mother should’ve left, too, while she had the chance.”

“You can get away with anything if you’re friends with the Sheriff,” Reilly reminds his fellow deputy. “Sheriff Ferris probably helped sweep all that bad shit under the rug. I say we just rule this an accident and move along with our lives.”

Tavares awkwardly clears his throat and rises to his feet. He leaves Dr. Andersen’s file on the desk, takes his jacket off the coat hanger by the front door of the station, and slips it on. Tavares puts his hat on his head and checks his pockets for his truck keys.

“When are you coming back?” Reilly asks.

“Don’t know yet. Might go on and get some fishing done before the cold really settles in after I go talk to Marner. It’s almost dusk, anyway. There’s no point in me coming back to the station. Is that all right with everyone?”

When the men all either shrug or nod, Tavares tips his hat at them.

“See you boys tomorrow, then,” he says as a farewell before walking out of the station.

The Sheriff pulls up to the old, rickety shack sitting on the shore of Lake Perry that has served as the Marner home ever since John can remember. It’s falling apart at the seams with rotted boards serving as a makeshift porch and old fabric used as curtains to weakly block the sun from entering the household through the windows. The tin roof is extremely rusty with holes in it. The walls of the shack are covered in dead and living vines as well as moss.

The boards on the porch groan under the pressure from John’s feet as he stands in front of the screen door. He knocks on the wall three times and patiently waits. He knows that someone is home because there’s an old Chevy pickup parked to the right side of the house.

It doesn’t take long for John to hear someone walk around the shack. A shorter, lanky figure with messy chestnut hair, a boyish face, and tired baby blue eyes appears on the other side of the screen door. He has grease smudged around his cheeks and forehead, and there are a few dying bruises scattered around his arms and neck. The cut on his plump bottom lip is finally starting to heal, and his left eye doesn’t look bloodshot anymore.

He’s still the most handsome man John has ever laid eyes on.

“Someone found him,” Mitch Marner rasps. “Didn’t they?”

John swallows down his Adam’s Apple. He can hardly speak, so he just nods. Mitch curses loudly and slams the side of his fist against the trim of the doorway.

“Can I come in?” John asks tentatively. Mitch bites the uninjured side of his lip but doesn’t hesitate to open the rusted screen door. John shuffles inside and closes the door behind him. The shack smells like mold and cigarette smoke, like it always does. He hates this place, mostly because he knows how much Mitch hates this place. Too many bad memories outweighing the good.

John hears the flick of a lighter and snaps his head in Mitch’s direction. Just as he assumed, Mitch is lighting a cigarette in the middle of the kitchen area. Mitch puffs on the cigarette and blows some smoke out of his mouth, staring out the window and over the murky lake.

“You know those things are gonna kill you,” John says. Usually it gets him a laugh or a fond eye roll from Mitch. Sometimes both if the young man is in a particularly happy mood. Today, though, he only gets a scoff for his troubles.

“Not like I don’t deserve it,” Mitch bites as he takes another drag off his Marlboro Red.

“Mitch—”

“I mean, really, I should’ve known that this would happen. I don’t know why the fuck I thought I could get away with this.”

“Dr. Andersen has already said that it’s going to be a while before he can come up with anything that isn’t accidental death. No one is going to know the truth.”

Mitch’s hand is trembling as he brings his cigarette back to his lips. The cigarette is already more than halfway gone.

“You can’t be so sure about that. The truth always comes out. Might as well get a head start on my one-way ticket to Hell, right?”

John’s heart aches.

“I hate it when you start talking like that,” he murmurs.

“Why? You know it’s the truth. That’s what happens when you murder your own father. Being queer is just the icing on the fucking cake.”

John shuts his eyes tight, blinking away the tears that are starting to form.

“You were protecting yourself,” he tries to convince Mitch for the upteenth time, just as earnest as all the other times. “He was going to kill you. You did what you had to do to stay alive.”

Mitch buries the dead cigarette in the ashtray on the kitchen table. He sniffles loudly, trying to crane his neck away so that John can’t see his face. Two years have gone by, and Mitch still hates crying in front of John. It hurts John the most to see tears fall from those beautiful baby blues.

He finally takes the three steps he needs to get close to Mitch. The finger-shaped bruises around Mitch’s pale, slender neck might be fading at last, but John will never forget the way Mitch looked so terrified and broken, deep purple bruises littering his beautiful skin, screaming and begging for his father to let him go. He wishes he himself could have strangled Paul Marner with his bare hands. Wishes he could have seen the life fade from that rotten bastard’s eyes.

But he can’t. All he can do is be thankful that the monster can’t lay another hand on Mitch.

Mitch reaches for another cigarette, but John gently plucks it from his fingers. Mitch doesn’t even try to fight John for the cigarette. His bottom lip wobbles as he looks up at John for the first time since hearing the news about his father’s body being found. Some of his messy hair has fallen in his eyes, so John gently brushes it out of his face.

Mitch suddenly lets out a broken sob and presses his face into John’s shoulder. John catches his sagging body immediately and holds the shorter man close.

“I’m right here, baby,” the Sheriff whispers into Mitch’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you ever again.”

He gently rocks a crying Mitch side to side, coos sweet nothings in his ear until Mitch quiets down to the occasional sniffle and hiccup. John is sure the shoulder of his shirt is soaked, but he doesn’t mind. Mitch slowly forces his head up again and starts to wipe at his wet, rosy cheeks, but John just moves his hands under Mitch’s own and finishes the job for him while letting Mitch’s palms rest against his knuckles.

“God, you’re beautiful,” John blurts out. Mitch looks exhausted with swollen eyelids trying to close and a red nose that would put Rudolph to shame. Still, he is the most angelic creature in John’s eyes.

Mitch’s cheeks get impossibly redder. He doesn’t say anything as John leans down to kiss him. Mitch lets him and kisses him back just as passionately. John pulls Mitch closer and holds him tight. He is careful with Mitch’s injured bottom lip as he deepens the kiss. Mitch groans every time John’s tongue swipes over his lip and finally lets John slip his tongue inside while simultaneously trying to tug John’s shirt out of his pants.

John blindly fumbles for Mitch’s wrists and forces them away from John’s clothes. Mitch whines unhappily against John’s mouth.

“John, please,” he pleads.

“Not here,” the older man says as he pulls away. Mitch pouts, and John has to thumb at his jutted out lip. “I want you to come home with me.”

Mitch’s eyes darken.

“Let me get some clothes.”

Just as Mitch is about to dart off to his makeshift bedroom in one of the other corners of the shack, John takes ahold of his hand and reins him back in.

“I meant for good, baby.”

John knows how much Mitch hates this shack and all the trauma and suffering it represents. He doesn’t know of every horrible experience Mitch has had at the hands of his father. He can’t begin to fathom what his poor lover has had to suffer through over the years.

Mitch’s eyes are glassy when he finally looks back up at John. He stands on his tiptoes and gently kisses the older man’s lips. He presses his forehead against John’s own when he eventually pulls away. His breaths are labored, and it sounds like he’s trying to keep himself from crying again.

“Ok.”

It takes a while for them to pack up the essential things that Mitch needs and wants. It’s well into the night when they get the bags and suitcases full of clothes, trinkets, photographs, and other personal items that Mitch deemed important while packing.

John never realized how much he doesn’t truly know about Mitch’s past until Mitch starts telling little stories through the entire packing process. He talks about the time his mother poured rubbing alcohol down his leg when he skinned it on the gravel path at five years old. It hadn’t hurt, at first, but then it began to burn seconds after he said he didn’t feel pain. Mitch laughs and smiles wistfully at the portrait of his mother he keeps at his bedside.

She was a beautiful woman with long, blonde hair, a dazzling smile, and light eyes. They were probably the same shade of blue as Mitch’s own. John can see where Mitch got his good looks from.

Mitch puts the photo in the small bag filled with nothing but framed pictures and photo albums. John doesn’t say anything when Mitch discreetly brushes a fresh tear away from his cheek.

“Chris and I used to dance with Mom in the living room to Elvis and the Beatles when I was growing up,” Mitch says softly when they close up the record player by the kitchen table. The record player is old, but it works just as well as John’s brand new one. No use in tossing it out.

“You always told me she was a good dancer,” John comments.

“She was.” Mitch glances over his shoulder and stares longingly at the tiny living room area of the shack. John finishes locking up the record player while he lets Mitch reminisce.

They stumble upon Mitch’s father’s stuff, and John doesn’t think Mitch is going to want to take anything with him that will remind him of his father. He takes one thing out of all the things that were once Paul’s.

Mitch dusts off the cover of what looks like a very old Bible.

“He could quote every verse from this book,” Mitch says, “but he could never live the way God told him to. Like father, like son, eh?”

John never looks too hard into what the consequences of his earthly lifestyle will be when he dies. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets there, he supposes.

Mitch takes the Bible with him. He leaves everything else of his father’s behind.

John considers himself lucky that he inherited his family’s land after his parents passed on. His house sits on six acres of property and is far enough away from the main roads of town that Mitch can come into his driveway without any problems or strange glances.

He’s been anticipating Mitch moving in with him for a few months now, and he’s happy that this is finally happening. He hates the circumstances around it, but he and Mitch will figure it out together.

John pulls into his long driveway to find Mitch has beaten him home. His truck is parked in its usual spot: on the left side of the white, two-story house behind some pine trees. They drove separately like they always do so that they wouldn’t attract too much attention. The townspeople of Good Hope love to gossip, and it seems that Mitch is always the primary talk of their circles.

Most of the people of Good Hope have made assumptions over the years about Mitch being gay, and a few of them here and there like to be unnecessarily outspoken about his alleged lifestyle. His father was always the worst about making it known that no one son of his was gay and never would be, and he wouldn’t hear anymore of it. John could never tell if the old drunk genuinely believed that his son wasn’t gay or if he was just in denial. Not like he gave a shit about Mitch, anyway, except to try and steal his money every month to waste it all on alcohol and gambling. Mitch was nothing more than a bank and a punching bag to that bastard, in the end.

John tightens his grip on the steering wheel and takes deep breaths.

He finally steps out of the car and walks inside. It’s so late, John can’t fathom taking boxes inside right now. He’s hungry, and he knows Mitch most likely is, too. He’s sure he can whip up something quick for them before they have to head to bed. They can worry about all the boxes in the morning.

“Mitch!” John calls through the house. “I’m home!”

There’s no reply. He sees Mitch’s leather jacket hanging up on the coat rack by the front door along with the boxes that held Mitch’s mother’s fine china already empty and undone and propped up against the wall. Mitch’s steel-toed boots are sitting neatly by the front door where they always sit when Mitch comes to visit.

Mitch isn’t visiting anymore, though. This is his home just as much as it is John’s home. It has been for a while, really.

He can hear running water move through the pipes of the house. John takes off his own jacket and boots, placing everything to the left of Mitch’s belongings, before going up the steps to the top floor. He walks down the hall to the master bedroom and starts stripping his clothes off as soon as he closes the door behind him.

The water is much louder now. John knows Mitch is on the other side and he desires nothing more than to be close to his lover. When he’s put his clothes in his laundry hamper, he finally steps in front of the bathroom door and knocks, waits, listens in for a moment before turning the door knob and slowly walking inside.

John walks right through a hazy cloud of steam and shivers. It feels good against his rough skin, even with the shock of the temperature change. He can see Mitch’s thin silhouette behind the shower curtain, not moving much at all except to massage his shoulder. John gently pulls the shower curtain back.

He feels a deep pang in his heart when he sees that Mitch has been crying.

John steps in, not caring about the scorching hot water hitting his skin. The shower isn’t too big, but it’s big enough for the two of them somehow. Mitch sniffles and lets John take him in his arms. Mitch drapes his arms around John’s broad shoulders and rests his forehead in the crook of the older man’s neck.

John can see the tears still streaming down Mitch’s face and mixing with the water. John doesn’t try to stop Mitch from crying. He squeezes Mitch’s torso, unwilling to let go of his lover.

John’s heart is heavy. He wishes he could take Mitch’s pain and suffering away. He knows it’s impossible to do so, but at least he can take comfort in the fact that the one monster who would torture Mitch the most is no longer here to physically hurt him. John knows it’ll be a hard road ahead for him, but he’s ready. He vows to give Mitch his love and promises to always be his protector, his life partner, his everything.

Come Hell or high water or the unraveling of the truth, John will never leave Mitch’s side. Nothing and no one in this world, living or dead, will tear them apart.

  



End file.
